


A Splash of Orange, A Thread of Gold

by Abelina



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Episode: s02e09 The Satan Pit, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1256767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abelina/pseuds/Abelina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>‘Run’ was a beginning.  This is where we stop running.</i>  Rose and the Doctor in the aftermath of Krop Tor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so, this is my first offering for this fandom and pairing, but not my first fic. Also, I don't usually write in present tense, except that this story demanded to be written this way, and so it was. Or is. Tenses are confusing.
> 
> Thanks to yumimum for the beta read.
> 
> Oh, and I made the banner.

[ ](http://s1373.photobucket.com/user/Abelinajt/media/Banners/ASplashofOrangeAThreadofGold_zps92139b7b.png.html)

 

  **A Splash of Orange, A Thread of Gold**

*~*

The moment comes with a splash of orange against blue and gold. Rose runs to the Doctor and he to her, and as he pulls her up into his arms, she feels it pulsing soul-deep, a perpetual thrum in the fabric of time travelling between them. It curls endlessly warm around her, singing through every fibre of her being, and something inside her beats an answering rhythm, ancient and new and everything in between. She _knows._

She has always known it, or at least, her heart has, or her soul, if not her brain. It’s immense and terrifying and so much _more_ than could ever be confined to the word her human mind clings to. Here in his arms, swinging side to side, she understands why she couldn’t see it before, not fully anyway. All she had to compare to was a word, a single word that is only a shadow, a ghost of what this is, of the magnitude of what they are. She doesn’t know why she sees it now, she’s only grateful that she does.

He knows. His two hearts pound an answer against her one, and she can almost see the golden threads weaving between them, around them, through from him and into her, out from her and into him. He holds her close and laughs the way he only ever does when they’ve found each other after being kept apart. She doesn’t believe in fate, or destiny, or the idea that everything was somehow decided for her before she took her first breath. He may have had her at _run_ but their actions, their thoughts and feelings are their own. She believes in him, and in them, and knows without doubt that they _are_ because they have made themselves so.

When he sets her down his eyes are bright, shining, overflowing with emotions too epic, too extraordinary to name. He probably could, in the language of Gallifrey, elegant words more complex and mysterious than the Doctor himself. Or maybe he can’t. There’s a thought in her head, a weightless tingle in her chest that suggests maybe, _maybe_ , this is something even he can’t put into words.

“Rose.”

Her name rolls from his lips, warm as tea, thick as honey, deeper than any pit with any beast could ever be.   And maybe that’s enough, her name as only he can say it no matter which face he wears, expressing more with those four simple letters than he can with even his most impressive speechifying.

“Doctor,” she answers, with more breath than sound.

His cool palm cradles her cheek, and she leans into his touch, willing her eyes to stay open, locked on his, when all they want to do is flutter shut. She reaches for the zip of the space suit instead, not really knowing why except that she needs him out of it, wants the reminder of almost losing him out of sight. She doesn’t think she’ll want to take her eyes off him for the foreseeable future. He helps, tossing the orange thing away in a corner when the job’s finished, then taking her hand and leading her toward the console.

There’s still work to be done. The adventure’s not over until they’re safely inside the vortex. She can’t quite let go of the worry gnawing in her gut over the words of the beast, but he’s so desperate in his reassurance—his own brand of desperate, when seriousness wins out over the hiding of a thing behind a joke—that she lets herself believe it in the moment, even though it’ll linger there in the dark corners of her mind for a long time to come.

They speak with the three on the spaceship, and when he answers Ida’s question, Rose can’t help but agree. The stuff of legend. Her smile is mirrored on his face. Soft, subtle, understated and everything that they are not on the surface, but it’s fitting, too, and she knows he thinks the same. He throws the lever with emphasis. Grins widen as the time rotor flares to life, and they are away.

He doesn’t say a word after that. She doesn’t, either, just squeezes his fingers when his hand finds hers again and walks alongside him into the depths of the TARDIS. She’s glad when they reach the door to his room and he urges her inside with a hand on her lower back, fingertips just grazing her skin above her jeans. Her muscles ache and pull from the tension, the mad crawling through ductwork, and, she suspects, from whatever drug they used to subdue her. Sweat and grit cling to her skin and she’s certain she must smell of death. Thoughts of a shower or a good long bath tempt her, but she needs the Doctor nearby, needs his hand in hers and his face in her field of view even more.

She’s been here before, in his bedroom. With the lifestyle they lead, this isn’t the first time they can’t bear to be out of each other’s sight and the more dangerous and prolonged the escapade, the more likely the Doctor is to need sleep. Those nights he doesn’t want to be alone. He never admits it and Rose doesn’t press him. His comfort is worth more to her than words.

Rose doesn’t remember exactly when they moved from her room to his for this, only that of late it’s his deep grey walls surrounding them the nights they spend together. She never asks if he sought comfort from his previous companions like this, but suspects maybe not, or at least not often. She knows by now she’s the first to travel with him since the Time War and thinks, perhaps, the sort of solace she gives him wasn’t something he needed before—or at least not with the same acuity as he does now.

He sits down at the edge of his bed and pulls off his trainers and socks, tucking the Chucks beneath the bed and tossing the socks into the laundry chute in the opposite wall. His suit jacket follows. Rose, more than ready to fall into the soft bed and sleep for a year or two, drops her shoes into their usual corner, and throws her socks in the direction of the chute. They hang over the edge because her arms are aching and her aim is rubbish, but she doesn’t care. She flops down beside him on the bed, but the Doctor bounces to his feet in a sudden burst of nervous energy. He whirls back round to face her and holds out his hand, which she accepts eagerly. He strokes his thumb slowly over the back of it.

Rose lets him pull her back to her feet, arranging her expression into what she hopes resembles a question. The Doctor’s mouth is set into a firm line, his jaw tense, but it isn’t anger or fear that’s done it, it’s something else and that something is beating in her chest, quickening her pulse, and she thinks his own hearts must be dancing, too. His eyes are shining, but darkly, deeply, open so widely his eyebrows arch and his forehead smoothes and so do the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“Come with me?” he asks.

She will follow him wherever he leads her. Rose blinks and whispers, “yes.”

With a gentle tug of her hand, the Doctor walks them into the bathroom. It’s an oasis of coral in here, a mixture of orangey pink pillars and deep red walls that looks more like something one might find in a secluded grotto on an aquatic paradise than in a bathroom on a space ship. The shower is behind a curved coral wall, through an arched doorway that looks simply like a natural whorl in the otherwise unbroken structure. The Doctor releases her hand to touch the controls along the wall’s edge, the only hint of the technology hidden here. He keeps his back to her as the water switches on and the bathroom fills slowly with steam.

Rose waits, knowing what’s to come but scarcely daring to believe it. This isn’t something that’s happened before, and she wonders if it’s even happening now. Tingly warmth spreads through her chest and her head and arms and legs are suddenly weightless. A feeling settles in her belly, like tidal waves of a boiling ocean breaking in quick succession. The resulting flood rushing in her veins is dampened only by the prickle in the base of her skull that worries she’s misreading the situation. When the steam wraps around her and its humidity seeps deep into her lungs, the Doctor faces her again with those wide dark eyes and she knows she isn’t.

His gaze never leaves hers as his hands reach out, and Rose reads the question there, plain as the freckles on his cheeks or the stars in the sky or every single obvious thing she can imagine. She nods, making sure to keep her eyes focused on his. Rarely is he so unguarded, and to look away now will risk breaking the spell they’re falling under. Then his fingers find the zip of her jacket, sliding it slowly down, and the sound of the metal teeth parting is so loud in her ears, louder than the shower or her heartbeat or the ever-present hum of the TARDIS.

The Doctor pushes the jacket off her shoulders and Rose lets it fall to the ground at her feet. Despite breathing so hard she thinks her chest might explode, she reaches for the Doctor’s tie, sliding her fingers along the blue silk until they reach the knot. His eyes never leave her face as she works it free and slips the tie out of his collar.

The tie falls from view. The Doctor starts unbuttoning his shirt, and Rose swallows hard, grips the hem of her top, and pulls it over her head. They undress in heated silence, shedding the layers one by one until finally, Rose steps out of her jeans and knickers. She misses the Doctor’s reaction to her nakedness because just then he’s sliding his trousers and pants together past his narrow hips, and her gaze falls well south of his face.

He’s half hard already, and Rose looks without trying to hide it, because she’s imagined this more times than she can remember, and now’s not the time to be bashful. He appears human and she’s not surprised about that, but she is impressed, and the little smile on his lips when she glances back to his face and finds him watching her spreads a wave of heat through her belly.

They enter the shower together. Four showerheads rain down on them, one from each wall, and they stand in the centre beneath the spray. The water is blessedly hot, just shy of scalding, but cleansing and vital and it reddens her skin but doesn’t burn. They wash quickly, scouring away the sweat and grime, the fear and pain, letting it all flow down the drain in a gritty, soapy swirl. The Doctor leans toward her, soapsuds still clinging to his shoulders, and presses his forehead to hers. His hand comes up to cradle her cheek and she leans into his touch, this time giving in to the desire to let her eyes fall shut. His breath flits over her face and his other hand lands on her back to pull her fully against him. She presses her palms to his chest, one hand over each beating heart.

Once upon a time Rose equated intimacy with sex. She knows better now. Even with their bodies responding to one another—she’s wet and aching and he’s fully hard between them—this moment is the most intimate of her life in a way that is beyond sex, beyond the physical contact she craves like breathing. The Doctor’s holding onto her as though she’ll fade away if he doesn’t, and he’s open and needy and vulnerable in a way he’s never been before. Yet it takes more strength to let down the guard, to drop the shields, to tear off the armour, than it does to hide behind it. Somehow it’s her he’s let in to see it, and she can’t begin to find the words to describe what that means to her.

The steam of the shower is warm and heavy, but there’s a different heat here, too, a weightless sort that sets her skin alight. The Doctor takes a step back, reaches for the shampoo and squeezes some onto his hands, the minty scent of it picked up by the steam to tickle her nostrils. It’s her current favourite and she doesn’t mind that he knows this little detail, that he has a bottle in his shower as though it was only a matter of time before she ended up here.

“Turn around,” he says, after quickly lathering his own hair, and though he speaks quietly his voice rings loudly in her ears.

She does, and a moment later his fingers are in her hair, massaging her scalp, gently untangling each knotted strand. She closes her eyes, breathing in the invigorating aroma of menthol. His ministrations leave her tingling, a sensation that matches the tickle of mint in her nose and spreads down her neck and over her shoulders until she shivers despite the heat.

“…you’re not cold?”

She hears his uncertainty, the little hesitation in his voice and it’s almost laughable at this point. Instead of laughing Rose turns to face him, wraps her arms around his neck and presses her body to his.

“No,” she says, looking up at him. “I’m not cold at all.”

His arms go around her and he hugs her tightly, and it’s just like their other hugs, really, except they’re naked and in the shower. As she thinks it, a soft rumbling rises up through the Doctor’s chest and passes his lips in a little humming sound. She shivers again, his voice vibrating through her inner ear until her knees go suddenly weak and another burst of tingling heat erupts in her chest. The Doctor’s hands move from around her shoulders and down to her hips and he pulls back just enough to see her face. His lower lip catches in his teeth and he digs his fingertips into her flesh, tilts his hips and pushes his erection firmly, deliberately, into her stomach.

Rose’s arms are still wound around his neck and she hauls him down and presses her lips to his. She expects slow and chaste, but his lips part immediately, sliding hotly, insistently against hers. His tongue swipes over her lip and she answers his query by gliding her tongue alongside his. Rose’s head spins and the heat of the shower pools in her belly, and she gasps into the Doctor’s mouth as her back meets the shower wall before she even realizes they’ve moved.

Desperate to hold onto something, Rose shoves her fingers into the Doctor’s hair. He bites her bottom lip in response, and when she groans, a needy, desperate sound, he abandons her lips to nip at her neck, just below her ear. She bucks her hips against him as the sensation rockets straight from her neck to clit, but the way they’re standing isn’t good for friction. She groans again, only partly out of frustration, because the Doctor’s lips and teeth blaze a trail of fire down the column of her throat and it’s _fantastic_.

He shifts, nudging his right leg in between hers, almost lifting her up into the wall. The coral behind her is forgiving, supportive but pliable and not at all scratchy, pulsing with the life of the TARDIS, and she feels she’s almost melting into it. Then the Doctor’s thigh presses harder, right where she needs it, and Rose could be standing in a pit of fire or lying flat on her back on a rocky beach and it wouldn’t matter at all.

She moans loudly and the Doctor chants her name into her flesh and rocks against her. Rose rolls her hips over his thigh and gasps his name. The Doctor’s lips cease their motions against her neck and he cradles her face with his hands, his brown eyes hooded but intense as he pulls back to look at her.

“Oh, Rose,” he says. “I thought I’d lost you.”

She shakes her head, trying to swallow the sudden lump in her throat. Tears prick at her eyes and she shuts them tight. “I’ll always find you.”

It doesn’t matter which of them was lost and found the other, just that they have and they’re together now. The Doctor presses light kisses to her eyelids, to her cheeks where her tears have spilled despite her best efforts, and the tip of her nose, which elicits a soft sigh.

His lips ghost over hers and he whispers, “Not if I find you first.”

It’s her words from his mouth, and she smiles against his lips but doesn’t speak. His hips haven’t stilled and neither have hers, and the way they move together, a gentle, rocking preview of where the night is undoubtedly going, sends delicious voice-stealing frissons through her. So she nibbles instead on his bottom lip, imagining its plump temptation clearly in her mind, drawing him back into a kiss. His hands wander as he angles his head to deepen it. The moment his tongue swipes across her lip is the same moment his finger circles the swell of her breast.

Rose moans into his mouth, arching her back. He cups her breast in his hand, rolling her nipple between his fingers in time to the strokes of his tongue along hers. Rose drags her hand down, over his shoulder and the lean sculpture of his bicep. He’s got his hand buried in her hair, so she leaves his arm to graze his side with her fingernails, practically growling into his mouth when he shudders in response. She works her hand between them and wraps her fingers around his cock, and he shudders even harder, pulling away from her mouth and gasping.

“Rose,” he groans, as she slowly strokes him. “Keep that up and there’s no going back.”

She squeezes and he bites his lip to suppress a raspy moan. “Doctor,” she says, caressing his cheek with her free hand. “We both know going back’s not an option.”

A small smile plays at his lips but it’s softened by the way his mouth falls open with each downward stroke of her hand. On the upstroke he moans a breathy little noise that’s hotter than anything she’s ever heard. Rose swipes her thumb through the little drop of pre-come at his tip, but he stops her hand with his before she can complete the motion.

She lets him, because his eyes are blazing and she has her suspicions about the tenuous nature of his self-control. The grin that lights her face is automatic, she can’t help it, and it turns into a laugh when the Doctor’s nostrils flare and he lifts her up and presses her back firmly against the shower wall.

“You, Rose Tyler,” he says, taking both her hands and pinning them to the wall above her head, “are the most brilliant woman across all the universes. About bring this old Time Lord to an embarrassing end.”

His face hovers close to hers, but not close enough that Rose misses the way his eyes follow the motion of her tongue across her bottom lip.

“You don’t fool me, Doctor,” Rose whispers, belly fluttering at the possessive way he’s holding her against the wall. “You just want to prove you still remember how it’s done.”

Slowly, his lips descend to place feather-light kisses along her jaw line. “As if I’d forget,” he says, biting softly at the pulse point of her throat. “Really, Rose.”

He bites a little harder and Rose doesn’t even try to hide her groan of pleasure. The only movement she can make is to wrap her legs around his hips, so she does. They shudder together when his cock slides wetly along her slick labia.

Suddenly breathless, Rose still manages to speak. “Gonna show me?”

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Oh, yes.”

He releases her hands, and she drops them automatically to his shoulders. One of his settles at her hip and the other draws patterns on the skin of her neck, over her chest where he paints invisible circles around the curve of each breast, and down. His light strokes tickle, and she quivers when he writes across her belly. She doesn’t know what the symbols mean, but she recognizes Gallifreyan writing and imagines he’s drawing upon her all the words he cannot say.

Maybe he is, but she forgets all about circles and Gallifrey when his fingers travel lower, through the curls she hasn’t got round to trimming recently, dampened not by the shower but by her own body’s moisture. His touch is light but not shy as he deliberately avoids her clit, instead tracing along the outside of her labia before finally parting her, dipping his fingers into her folds and teasing her entrance with a series of feather-light circles. He draws his fingers back up, eyes never straying from her face, tracing her contours slowly, coating himself with her wetness and biting his lip as she shakes a little bit more each time he applies just a hint of pressure to the underside of her clit.

“Rose, you are so _wet_ ,” he says, as though it’s the revelation of the century, and maybe it is.

He finally strokes the pad of his thumb over her swollen clit, sucking in a deep breath when the resulting zing of pleasure has her bucking her hips into his hand.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, experimenting with different strokes, different amounts of pressure, until whatever he’s done makes her inner muscles clench hard and brings a whimper to her lips.

He repeats the motion and Rose’s head falls back against the wall as a jolt of sensation spreads through her and she can’t even breathe. She arches against him and he slips two fingers inside her, never ceasing the motion of his thumb. It’s been years for her and his fingers aren’t small, but she’s so wet they slide right in anyway, filling her up like a tease of what’s to come. It’s almost too much, though, and she closes her eyes, growing rapidly lightheaded as he withdraws before plunging in again, curling the digits _just so_ at the end of his thrust _._

She cries out, grinding into his hand, clutching at his shoulders with wild fingers.

“Rose…”

Her name is a breath that flutters over her face while his fingers pump into her. Their first time and he’s already managed to find just the right spot inside her, hitting it each time with those long fingers. His thumb circles her clit and his other fingers—she thinks they must have doubled in number—tease her with light, fluttery touches, stealing what little breath she manages to take and turning her knees to jelly. It’s a good thing the wall’s holding her up because she’s not sure her legs can do the job as ecstasy surges electric through her belly, icy hot and beautifully too much. She squeezes around his fingers when he plunges in, strangles them when he slides them out, tosses her head from side to side and moans like she’s dying and almost believes she might be.

“Rose. My beautiful Rose.” The Doctor’s lips speak his words into her neck and the shivers of pleasure there echo those caused by his fingers below. “You’re so close, aren’t you?”

She squeaks a reply, but there’s no air left in her lungs for more than that.

He grazes her neck with his teeth and slips a third finger inside her with his next thrust. “You always come back to me, Rose.”

Rose’s heart thunders in her chest and her muscles flutter in warning. Her toes curl around the little ripples of pleasure and she grips his shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin.

“Doctor!”

“Rose,” he whispers. “Come for me.”

Each slippery decent into her, every powerful stroke over her clit brings another moan, louder, closer together, until it’s one long string of incoherent noise. Rose rolls her hips desperately, wildly, too far gone to match the rhythm he’s set but it doesn’t matter, because it’s wonderful, so much more than wonderful because it’s the Doctor, and he’s touching her— _loving her_ —and she’s so lightheaded she thinks she might pass out if she doesn’t come first.

“Come, Rose. _Please_.”

One more thrust of his fingers, one more turn of his thumb, and Rose crashes. Her orgasm tears through her, the tsunami breaking, rocking her back against the wall as the Doctor continues to work his fingers inside her. She clenches around him, cursing into the steamy air, tightening her arms around his neck and completely forgetting to breathe.

His strokes slow as she comes down, until he slides his fingers free of her heat. She sags into him and he buries his face in her neck, whispering words she can’t hear, can only feel the vibrations of them on her skin.

When she finally finds the strength to look up, he immediately steals a kiss, a slow and tender meeting of lips that stretches on and on until he eventually breaks it. Fingers stroke her half-dried hair, tucking a strand behind her ear, and he seems to be searching in her eyes for something. Rose thinks she knows what he seeks, and hopes that he finds it there because it’s always been his.

“Hello,” he says, finally, with a small smile.

That’s perfect, Rose thinks, and she grins right back. “Hello.”

She reaches between them and encircles his cock with her fingers. He’s hot in her hand, harder even than before, and he gasps and shudders when she strokes him slowly and guides him between her legs, rubbing his erection along her folds until he’s slick with her juices. The wide-eyed look is back, even as Rose releases him to drape her arms over his shoulders. The Doctor’s hands grip her waist and he makes gentle thrusts against her, finding the right angle, nudging at her entrance without sliding in. Rose rolls her hips in the same subtle motion, watching his face as his eyes dart over her features, gaze flicking down between them and back up again.

“Here? Really?” he says, in a high-pitched sort of whisper. “I thought…”

Rose moves her hips with a bit more conviction, drawing just the tip of his cock inside and locking her ankles behind him to keep him there. A tremor rolls through his entire body, and he stills his hips but she keeps moving, teasing his sensitive head until he shudders again and lets his eyes fall shut.

“You thought _what_ , Doctor?” Rose asks.

He swallows hard and forces his eyes back open. “Later. In bed?”

Rose’s heart flutters at his words, and she smiles, poking her tongue out the corner of her mouth because she knows how much he likes it. She links her hands behind his neck and pulls forward—drawing him just a little further inside—to kiss the water droplets along the line of his jaw.

“Yes, _here_. Right here. Up against the wall.” She speaks the words into his skin, feels the hint of stubble against her lips as she kisses a trail to his ear. She nibbles the lobe and feels him shiver, then whispers, “ _And_ later. In bed. Whichever way you like.”

“Oh…” He draws the word out longer than its two simple letters can convey on their own. “Oh!”

“Yes, _oh_ ,” says Rose, leaning back to watch his face as his eyebrows arch high on his forehead. The Doctor grins, a smile that’s wide and full of teeth and impossibly adorable, and Rose digs her heels into his bum. “Now make love to me already, you daft alien.”

He buries his cock inside her in one smooth, hard thrust that rocks her back into the coral wall. The shock of pleasure bursts inside and travels up her spine until her head spins, and she lets out a groan which matches his. Rose’s eyes open wide but the Doctor’s are wider, and he’s gaping at her, lips moving as though he wants to say something but can’t find the words. Rose wishes she were telepathic because now more than ever she would truly love to read his thoughts.

For a moment they don’t move, Rose pinned to the wall by his hips, their gazes locked on each other. Rose’s inner muscles tighten around him, quite without her permission, and the Doctor takes a deep, shuddery breath, his lips parted, his tongue just grazing the plump bottom one.   He withdraws a little and presses back in, a tentative motion which she responds to by pushing her hips away from the wall. He’s not small and she’s stretched so full that even this gentle slide of their flesh together produces delicious shivers of pleasure.

“Oh, Rose,” he says, and though he’s said it a lot tonight it’s perfection each time, and he starts to move in earnest, plunging deep inside her with each thrust of his hips.

She feels every inch of him and revels in the way he stretches her. She’s so wet there’s no pain, only sensation, and when she joins him in motion the feeling blooms, spreads, lights her up from her core all the way down to her toes and up to her swimming head.   Rose doesn’t try to hold back the noises, moans and sighs and other unnameable sounds of pleasure that punctuate the slap of flesh as their bodies come together.

On his next descent the Doctor adds an extra little twist to his hips at the end of his stroke, and Rose cries out when his cock strikes her _just there_ , as his fingers had done.

“Oh, _fuck,”_ she moans, when he does it again.

“Language, Miss Tyler,” he says breathlessly.

The third time, she lets out a moan that’s almost a scream and swears again. The Time Lord smirks, a smug grin that stretches across his lips, echoed by the arc of that damned eyebrow, which would be infuriating in most other circumstances but is undeniably sexy now. Yes, yes, he does remember how this is done, and when Rose tells him so he laughs and thrusts harder, presses even deeper than before, until her own giggle dies in a breathless gasp.

It makes him gasp, too, and the teasing grin melts away, replaced by hooded eyes and parted lips. Rose tightens her muscles around him, using her grip on his shoulders and her heels on his bum to pull him in hard. It becomes a contest of who can push the hardest, and before long he’s slamming into her and she’s driving onto him, and the force of them coming together sends blazes of light shooting behind her eyes and she can no longer keep them open. She’s panting for breath, and he’s whispering hoarsely into her neck, words falling from his lips too quickly for Rose follow, but maybe it’s just that her own cries are drowning him out.

The shower’s still running, covering them in its ever-hot spray, surrounding them in a thick shroud of steam. The same heat gathers in her belly, a whirlpool that’s spreading, deepening, growing heavier and hotter. Small tremors shimmer inside, tightening her muscles, sending them fluttering around him as she squeezes him tight, and she’s close, _so_ _close,_ teetering on the edge of the precipice and she can’t see the bottom.

They come together again, and it’s her name he groans into her neck. The Doctor drives his hand between them, fingers seeking her clit and finding it with a single stroke. It lights the fuse and the heat in her belly ignites, flares, blazes, and with his next hard thrust she tumbles over the edge, legs drawing up, body falling back against the wall as she cries out and shakes from the force of her orgasm. The Doctor shouts a string of nonsense and thrusts wildly into her, once, twice, before his body tenses and he comes with a throaty groan that begins in a growl and ends with _Rose_.

Rose collapses into his arms, boneless and dizzy as he spills inside her with a few final erratic thrusts. When his hips still the Doctor’s arms tighten around her waist and his knees give out, dropping them to the shower floor. He shifts his hold on her, his cock slipping free of her in the process. She groans at the loss of him and he makes a noise that might just mean the same thing, then manoeuvres them so he’s sitting against the wall with Rose sideways on his lap.

She rests her head on his shoulder, still clinging to him and unwilling to let go. The Doctor cradles her head with one hand while the other draws patterns on her hip, and they sit there together beneath the running water for a long time, just breathing.

Sometime later, the Doctor’s voice in Rose’s ear rouses her from the light sleep she has fallen into. “Rose,” he says again, nose nudging her temple. “Wake up, Rose.”

“Mmm.” She tips her head up to look at him and finds his face very close to hers.

He drifts closer, presses a gentle kiss to her lips. “Sleepyhead. To bed with you.”

They stand on shaky legs and linger in the shower long enough to wash up and condition Rose’s hair. Rose sends a silent thank you to the TARDIS for the ever-lasting hot water before they leave the bathroom to emerge in the Doctor’s bedroom.   A few pairs of her pyjamas have taken up residence here, but Rose drops the fluffy towel down the laundry chute and climbs into his bed naked. She usually sleeps against the wall because he always wakes first and doesn’t like to disturb her, and snuggles down now into her accustomed place. The mattress cradles her perfectly and the pillow is blissfully soft and familiar beneath her head. Rose turns onto her side facing the wall as the Doctor settles in behind her.  

Spooning isn’t quite as new as it ought to be, all things considered, but spooning naked is delightful. His body may be cooler than hers but his naked skin flush against her feels more than warm enough.

“Goodnight, Rose,” the Doctor whispers, throwing the blanket over them both before burrowing his bottom arm beneath her pillow and tucking his top arm around her, palm unerringly covering her breast and squeezing lightly.

Rose folds her arm over his and sighs softly, then wiggles her bottom back until it’s cradled quite snugly by his hips. “Good night, Doctor.”

She doesn’t add _sweet dreams_ , because if he does dream she knows they’re usually anything but sweet. That doesn’t stop her from hoping, though, that maybe tonight he’ll rest a bit easier. She knows she will, with the stress of the past few days shrouded by the bliss of the past hour, and she’s already feeling the pull of sleep tugging insistently at her groggy brain. Giving in, Rose snuggles deeper into the Doctor’s arms. The last sound she hears before falling asleep is the Doctor’s contented sigh.

*~*


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the knock knock joke. The muses refused to let me move on without keeping it in.

[ ](http://s1373.photobucket.com/user/Abelinajt/media/Banners/ASplashofOrangeAThreadofGold_zps92139b7b.png.html)

 

 

**A Splash of Orange, A Thread of Gold**

**Part II**

*~*

The lights are dim in the room when Rose wakes, well dark enough to sleep by but not completely pitch black. The roundels on the wall glow pale yellow, the sort of light that seems disruptive but really isn’t, not when it’s the TARDIS. The Doctor’s arms aren’t around her anymore, and Rose assumes he’s woken already and left her to her sleep.

She can’t quite pretend she’s not a little disappointed, with the cool sting of it prickling at the back of her neck, even though she understands. He isn’t human, never will be, and it’s a little unfair to expect him to lie around in bed waiting for her to wake when she needs so much more sleep than he does. The meaning of the night isn’t determined by whether or not he’s here when she wakes for their so-called morning after, though Rose would be lying if she said it wouldn’t be nice.

When she rolls over, Rose finds she’s completely mistaken. Curled on his side, hair sticking up everywhere, face slackened in sleep, is the Doctor. She has so rarely seen him sleeping before, just four times. Once, early on in their occasional bed-sharing when he had short hair and a Northern accent, she woke through the night because she forgot to use the toilet before going to bed, but by the time she climbed over him in her rush for the loo he was awake enough to offer a comment on the fortitude of her bladder. The next two times he wasn’t so much asleep as he was healing—from regeneration, that first time, and from an injury the other. The fourth time, when she caught him dozing in the library beneath an old book, he woke before she had the chance to really look, and so Rose is surprised by how young he looks now.

It’s the eyes, Rose thinks. The man can change his face, but not the weight carried in his eyes, and with them closed she can’t see the years he hides beneath this handsome visage. He’s as beautiful sleeping as he is when he’s awake, but differently. Peaceful looks good on him, if a little out of place, and a pleasant tingle lights in her chest, because who else can say they’ve seen this side of him? She doesn’t think many.

It’s not a naïve notion, though she’s certain Mickey might’ve told her so once upon a time. She knows it isn’t in the same way as she knows the rest of it, how he feels about her, that what’s between them is something bigger than both of them. It’s there, woven into the threads of time that encircle the two of them. _How_ she knows this is the only part she doesn’t understand, but that doesn’t make the knowledge any less the truth.

Rose nods off and wakes twice more before the Doctor finally stirs. He mutters something about calibrating the dimensional fractal relay modulator and arches his back, stretching out, all long skinny limbs and sticking up hair. Rose touches his temple with her fingers when he relaxes his stretch but before he seems fully aware. She strokes the skin there, and he moans quietly, a hint of a smile on his lips. After a minute or two, the sleepy grin becomes a conscious one, and the Doctor blinks his eyes open.

“Hello,” he says. They’re already lying close, but he wraps an arm around her and pulls her right to him.

“Oh!” Rose is surprised at the presence of his morning erection now poking her in the stomach and wiggles a little in greeting. “Hello!”

He knows well what she means but ignores it, instead trailing his fingers up her spine and into her hair, leaving behind a tingling path before mimicking the motion of her fingers with his own.

“You know,” he says, stroking softly, “on Gallifrey, this would be considered an invitation to something even more intimate than sex in the shower.”

That warms her up from the inside, and Rose doesn’t cease the small circles of her fingers. “A telepathy thing, yeah?”

“Yes,” he says. “Not that sex with you wasn’t, Rose, but priorities were…”

“Different,” Rose says, and he nods.

Her stomach’s a little fluttery at the way he’s taking this in stride, but not because she expects otherwise, not anymore. No, she just loves the way it sounds from his lips, loves the way it looks on him.

“Feels nice, though,” he says, his voice bringing Rose out of her head and back into the moment.

It takes her half a second to realise he’s talking about the touch of her fingers and not the sex, though that, undoubtedly, felt ‘nice’ too.

“Is that…” She bites her lip, considering, but decides to say it anyway. “Is that something we could do? I-I mean, if you wanted?”

He doesn’t answer, and a knot of worry tightens in Rose’s belly, except he doesn’t move away either or break eye contact. She can’t really read the expression in his eyes as he continues to trace light circles at her temple, except to say that it’s intense in a way that’s wholly unfamiliar. Long minutes pass before he abandons her temple to thread his fingers in her hair, and he glances upward then, or perhaps inward, before closing his eyes.

“If I—Rose, do you—” He stalls, exhaling through pursed lips, opening his eyes again and presenting her with that same intense look. “You do. Of course you do.”

Rose leans forward, brushing his nose with hers before placing a quick kiss on his lips. “It’s you,” she says, hoping that’s enough of an explanation for him.

It seems to be. He spends a few moments just gazing at her—there’s no other word for it—with wide-eyes and a soft little smile. “It’s possible, in theory, that we could. I believe you have some potential, just not now, Rose. To teach you, I need to be at my best and—”

“I dunno,” Rose says, bumping her hips forward. “You were pretty good earlier.”

That draws the smile and the huffy chuckle as she hopes it would. “You noticed, then?”

“Mmm, just a bit.”

She pokes out her tongue and he dives for it, catching it gently in his teeth before she can return it to the safety of her mouth. Rose protests, speaking words that matter less in content and more in sound because he’s still got her tongue and it’s all a string of incoherence anyway, but she feels his lips smiling against hers and that makes it worthwhile. He releases her and they kiss, a languid meeting of lips and tongues without the need to rush. Rose slides her fingers into his hair and sighs happily.

The kiss winds down before it can build up, and after a time they move apart just far enough to see each other’s face. The Doctor replaces his fingertips at her temple and brushes his thumb across her cheekbone.

“I want to show you something,” he says, tapping his thumb.

Rose understands immediately, and her insides stir with flutters of nervous elation. “All right,” she says, biting her bottom lip in an effort to contain her emotions. “Yes.”

The Doctor’s other hand slips between her face and the pillow to mirror the placement of the one already there. Rose waits, the fluttery nervous feeling intensifying, crawling up from her belly into her chest. Fingertips offer another light caress before settling firmly in place, two behind each ear, two over her temples, thumbs on cheeks.

Rose just barely registers taking a deep breath in when she feels it, a little like a tickle of fingertips dancing at the edge of her mind, not entering, not pushing or demanding, just _there._ “Oh!” she gasps, and by the time she’s spoken the sensation flits away.

The Doctor’s smiling in the way she always thinks of as his true smile, the boyish one that’s wide and toothy, ever so slightly manic, and usually follows the discovery of something amazing.        

“You felt it right away!” he says, with something like pride in his voice.

“Just a tickle,” Rose says, and he nods. “Like, knock, knock, who’s there?”

He tries, and fails, to keep a straight face as he answers. “The Doctor.”

She’s laughing already, but manages to giggle out the expected response. “Doctor who?”

He joins her in laughing, pulling her to him in a tangle of arms and legs, the end result of which seems to be a rather more entwined hug than she’s used to, but which she instantly decides is her favourite sort.

“Ask me that again someday,” the Doctor murmurs into her forehead, once their laughter dies down to a comfortable sort of quiet.

Rose doesn’t respond, because she senses that she doesn’t need to. So she burrows into the hug instead and they stay this way for a while. Arousal simmers between them, not as urgent as before but no less tangible. The Doctor plays idly with her hair and his breath whispers across her scalp, forming silent words that settle warmly in her chest even though she can’t hear them. Rose glides her fingers over his back, light brushes on his skin in random, swirly patterns. There’s a hum of energy beneath her fingertips as she touches him, something like the feel of the TARDIS in flight and just as alive. His ‘morning’ erection hasn’t gone away, either, and Rose is very conscious of its hard length and of the warmth pulsing between her legs in response.

It’s not long before the Doctor extracts himself from Rose to turn her onto her back. He hovers over her, propped up on his hands and knees and not touching her at all, just looking down at her face wearing the expression he does when he’s studying something intently. Rose feels her cheeks warm under his scrutiny, but not out of embarrassment.

“I’ve been imagining a thousand ways to make you come, Rose Tyler,” the Doctor says, and her cheeks blaze hotter. “The way you look… I want to repeat that until it’s permanently etched into my retinas.”

The simmer ramps up into a full-on boil, arousal spreading from its concentrated epicentre until her whole body feels warm and flushed.

“You say such nice things,” she says, as though he complimented her on her shoelaces or something equally as impersonal—never mind the fresh flood of moisture between her thighs.

He snorts, a smirk sliding onto his face as he leans down, still without touching her. “I quite enjoyed you coming apart around my fingers,” he says, “which, naturally, makes me wonder how you’d like my tongue.”

Rose groans and rolls her eyes with a little extra emphasis. She wants to take him up on the offer, but this game of words is _almost_ as good. “The way you’re always licking everything? Oh, I’m positive I’d absolutely hate every minute of it.”

That delightful lower lip pushes out past the upper one. “But _Roooose_.”

The whine in his voice is feigned, but he can’t hide the smoulder in his eyes. He leans a little closer, nudging one knee between hers, and whispers, “I want to know how you taste.”

A shiver rolls through her. Rose lifts her leg to curl it around his, now that it’s no longer trapped, and reaches her own hand down into her folds, coating her fingers in her copious wetness. She circles her clit, creating a bit of friction, just enough to make her clench her inner muscles and bite her lip from the tease of pleasure. The Doctor watches this with great intensity, his tongue laving his lips in what can only be a subconscious parody of what he wants to do to her.

Rose brings her hand up after a few minutes, grinning to herself at the way the Doctor’s gaze follows it unerringly. She holds her glistening fingers in front of her face, between hers and the Doctor’s, wiggling them a little, sliding them slickly back and forth.

He groans a needy little sound from the back of his throat. “Rose.”

She gives in and touches her fingertips to his lips. The point of his tongue thrusts out from parted lips to glide between her digits. What little upper hand Rose has vanishes the moment his tongue wraps around her finger and he sucks it into his mouth, licking it clean before repeating the treatment on the second finger. He doesn’t break eye contact the entire time and Rose wonders if it’s possible to spontaneously combust from this alone.

When he’s done, he releases her fingers from his mouth with a soft _pop_ and affects a thoughtful look, the sort he usually pulls out his brainy specs for. “You taste like…”

Rose presses her heel into the back of his thigh and drags it down his leg as far as she can reach. “Yes?”

He slowly, so slowly, raises his eyebrow and swipes his tongue across his lower lip. “Well,” he says, “with such a small sampling my options for comparison are limited.”

Before Rose can form a response, the Doctor slides down the bed a nd pushes her legs apart. Rose lifts up on her elbows and opens wider for him. He wriggles his arms beneath her thighs and looks up at her, chin resting low on her belly. Rose clenches around a little spark of arousal at the sight of him with his bed-head and hooded eyes and lazy smile.

“I could offer you a rather bad cliché,” he says, stroking the inside of her thigh with his fingers.

“Such as?”

“ _Bad_ , Rose,” he says, voice husky, dropping a kiss on her belly before inching down. “Very, very bad. The baddest bad that ever badded.”

“B-bad can be good,” Rose whispers, her breathing gone shallow with anticipation, wondering how he could possibly make silliness so arousing.

“Mmm.” He nudges her curls with his nose and breathes deeply. “Or, we could try for a comparison to food, which, come to think of it…”

He darts his tongue out, lapping at the moisture coating the coarse hairs in front of him. He hasn’t touched her, but he might as well have done for the way the action steals her breath and has her fighting the urge to buck her hips off the bed. He closes his eyes and licks his lips and rumbles in approval.

“Oh, God,” Rose moans, falling back into her pillow.

She feels the huff of his breath on her warm skin, and a second later he’s tracing the outside of her labia with his nose. Rose curls her fingers and toes into the bedding.

“I could likely manage something from a strictly chemical composition standpoint…”

His sideburns scratch her inner thigh and his nose is but a whisper, a tease of touch that’s not nearly enough at the same time as it’s almost too much. It’s torture, but the sweetest sort, and her legs tremble from the effort required to keep still. Rose groans—a deep, throaty thing that couldn’t possibly have come from her body, except it has and the Doctor pauses in his explorations to exhale another cool breath over her heated flesh.

“Doctor…”

“Rose,” he says, voice thick, almost reverent. He nips at her inner thigh and slides a hand round to lay low on her belly, long fingers splayed out over trembling skin. “You taste like—”

He dives in, tongue sliding along her folds until he reaches her swollen clit, circles it in broad, heavy strokes. Rose sighs and bites her lip around a soft moan.

“Oh, yes,” the Doctor murmurs.

He sucks the bud into his mouth, which draws a throaty moan from Rose as shivers of pleasure shoot from her clit, through her belly and straight down to her toes. His hand on her abdomen keeps her hips from moving, but her legs curl over his back and she clutches fistfuls of blanket in her fingers.

“Oh! Doct _or!_ ”

She’s aching already, throbbing with the desperate need to have him inside her, and each suck, each stroke of his tongue builds her higher and higher with lightning speed until she’s holding her breath and teetering on the cusp. Then he’s sliding two fingers into her, curling them just so and plunging in deep, and her orgasm crashes over her amidst a flurry of hoarse moans and words forgotten the moment they pass her lips.

The Doctor licks gently at her clit as she comes down, her body still quaking with shivery aftershocks. She lifts her head enough to see him peering up at her from between her legs and behind his tousled fringe. Beneath the heat in his gaze lies a profound tenderness she only ever catches brief glimpses of, yet he’s baring it to her now.

“Come here,” she whispers, reaching for his hand where it’s still lying on her belly.

The Doctor crawls up her body until he’s cradled between her thighs and he tangles their fingers together, placing their joined hands on the bed beside Rose’s head. His lips glisten with her juices and he looks down at her with almost the same sated expression she imagines she must be wearing.

“Oh, Rose.” He huffs a little chuckle and lets his forehead touch hers. “You taste so utterly wonderful I can’t possibly find the words in English.”

Laughter bubbles up in her chest, the sort that’s accompanied by tears that have nothing at all to do with being sad. “I’m happy with _wonderful_.”

“You _are_ wonderful.” He shifts up so he can see her face again, brushing her cheek with his fingertips. “And if I hadn’t taken a very bad fall down a very deep pit with a very beasty beast in it, and if I didn’t think I could use at least another hour of sleep—and four or five more for you—I’d get started on the other nine hundred ninety-nine ways of showing you.”

“This one’ll do,” Rose says, bending her knees, squeezing his hips with her thighs. “That’s a good start.”

He slides into her, slowly this time, until he’s seated fully and they groan together when he pushes just a little bit deeper. Rose again marvels at the way he stretches her. She thinks of a few clichés of her own but leaves them unspoken where they belong, instead sighing as he begins to move inside her. He’s not rushing, he’s barely withdrawing before sinking right back in, but Rose doesn’t mind the slow build. She twines her legs around the backs of his and rocks slowly with him.

“You feel so good inside me, Doctor,” Rose whispers, and her belly goes fluttery at the soft smile the words draw from his lips.

“You’re so hot around me,” he replies, in the softest voice she’s ever heard him use. “Hot and wet and so _tight_ , Rose, and you chase away every clever thing I want to say.”

Rose sighs again and thinks it doesn’t matter what he says, just that he’s saying it. They’re quiet for a time, aside from little sighs and quiet moans and the subtle sounds of sliding flesh. After rushing through the first act in the shower and her quickest orgasm _ever_ from oral sex, this slow third act is a welcomed change. Rose closes her eyes and threads her fingers into his hair. The Doctor nuzzles into the crook of her neck, murmuring words she can’t hear. This feels so right, this with him.

There’s a thought, in the back of her mind, that tells her _of course_ this is right. It couldn’t be anything else.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Rose debates with herself but decides, after a moment, that she wants to share. “I’m thinking about threads.”

He pauses mid-thrust and lifts his face from her neck to look at her. “What?”

He looks so baffled Rose has to smile, though he’s not distracted enough to cease his movements for long. His brow remains furrowed, but his next thrust is a little more emphatic.

Rose takes in a breath and explains. “It’s like, inside me, there’s this spool of golden thread. But it’s not just in me, it _is_ me, part of me, and the threads are travelling off everywhere. A lot of them just sort of vanish. I don’t know where they go.”

His brow furrows a little more. “Go on,” he says.

“Then there’s this tangle—no, that’s not right. It’s more like, a bunch of them are woven together, into these strands, and they look like they should break apart except they don’t, they’re strong, you know like how a spider’s web is?”

She isn’t sure she can get the words out beneath the intense scrutiny of his gaze, and closes her eyes to continue. “And those go right to you, Doctor, and I can’t tell where my threads end and yours begin.”

He’s quiet for so long, Rose begins to wonder if she shouldn’t have told him after all, though they’re still moving together. When he does speak at last, his voice is very soft, very quiet, and he has to clear his throat before he forms the words.

“You—you can see this?”

She starts to shake her head, but stops. “Not like I can see your face,” Rose says, opening her eyes again and finding that his are glistening. “And I can’t _feel_ it, either, not like I can feel you.”

She tightens her muscles around him, which draws a smile and a little groan.

“It’s just _there_ ,” she says, not knowing how else to explain. “I know it’s there, and when I think about it I get a picture in my head of the spool and threads.”

He releases her hand to cradle her head, fingers sliding into her hair. “I-I don’t know what to say to that.”

She worries her lip between her teeth, trying to will away the creeping anxiety rising in her gut. “Does that mean—am I imaging it all?”

“No. You’re not.”

He brushes her forehead with a light kiss and presses deep inside her. Rose wraps her legs around his bum, drawing him closer, keeping him there, a steady pressure inside that chases away the worry and replaces it with delicious shivers of sensation.

“When, Rose?”

“Longer than I realize, I think,” she says, reaching up to cup his cheek with her palm. “But today, I thought I’d lost you and when I saw you again it all just sort of exploded in my brain and I couldn’t un-see it.”

After a minute’s silence, he speaks, enunciating carefully as he does when what he’s saying is particularly important. “I think, Rose, that this is going to take a bit of figuring out, but if I had to guess—well, when I say guess, I mean carefully hypothesize based upon the available evidence—I would say it appears you’ve retained, or perhaps _obtained_ , a degree of time-sense.”

It clicks instantly, a half-memory of her time as the Bad Wolf. Rose doesn’t always get clear pictures of what happened at the Game Station, though she has slowly remembered most of the pertinent details over time. This is simply a flash, the more complicated parts an incomprehensible blur, except for the sense of those strands of gold weaving through time and space.

“From when I had the vortex in my head,” she says at last. “I’m time-sensing this.”

“Yes.” Rose doesn’t miss the hint of a shadow flash in his eyes as he answers. “Are you bothered by it? Headaches, or disorientation, or—”

Rose presses her fingers to his lips to stop him. “No, Doctor, I’m _fine_ , honestly. Look me over, sure, but later. We’re not meant to worry anymore tonight, and—” Rose simultaneously lifts her hips from the bed and presses him closer with her heels. “—I believe we’re in the middle of something.”

His answering grin has her clenching around him.

“I think the phrase you’re looking for is ‘the beginning of something’.”

The Doctor withdraws from her body and thrusts in hard and deep. Rose’s smile is broken by a moan as the sensation jolts through her.

“I— _oh_ —I thought we weren’t doing bad clichés.”

He presses forward to drop a kiss on her bottom lip, which drives him even deeper into her. He pauses there, pinning her to the bed with his hips. “Nothing about you or this or us is a bad cliché, Rose Tyler. But it is a beginning.”

Rose sighs and shakes her head. “No. ‘Run’ was a beginning. This is where we stop running.”

The look on the Doctor’s face as he gazes down at Rose tugs at something deep inside her. Her heart pounds in a way that has nothing at all to do with sex as she meets that powerful stare, hoping he can see in her eyes everything she sees in his. And maybe there is a place for clichés in all of this, for eyes that speak when the voices can’t, for things that are bigger and more terrifying and beautiful and amazing than words.

Rose caresses his cheek with her palm, and the Doctor closes his eyes as he leans into her touch and whispers her name. In the next instant he’s kissing her, hard and urgent, thrusting his tongue into her mouth with the same vigour as he thrusts his cock into her body. She can taste herself on his tongue and the knot in her belly pulls tighter. He drags her hands above her head, pinning them to the bed. Rose wraps her legs around his waist pulls up from the bed to meet his thrusts, and the angle is bliss, he’s so deep inside her, and oh, _oh_ , he remembers about that twist of his hips and suddenly it’s all Rose can do to keep up.

The kiss grows sloppy, coordination of tongues and teeth and lips losing out to the pounding of their bodies. Rose breaks away and lets out a moan and the Doctor buries his face in the crook of her neck, groaning into her skin. He works a hand between them, fingers fumbling for her clit, and she’s so slick and swollen and sensitive that even his clumsy strokes are enough. The knot breaks and the pressure explodes, spreads out from her core in a blaze of tingling heat all the way to the tips of her fingers and the soles of her feet, up through her belly, over her scalp and down her spine and through every nerve in her body until she’s awash in flames. Her climax crashes through her, seizing her muscles and drawing her cries out into a single, rasping wail which is echoed by the Doctor’s throaty groan a moment later. He thrusts in hard, his whole body going rigid as he comes inside her.

They collapse together onto the bed, sweat-soaked and boneless. Rose’s vision’s a bit blurry round the edges and the Doctor’s body on top of hers should be heavy but isn’t, and she clings to him in a dreamy, floaty afterglow that feels a little like holding onto the safety of the TARDIS doors and letting her body drift in the weightlessness of deep space. Likely somewhere in the vicinity of a supernova.

The Doctor rolls onto his back and holds out his arm so Rose can snuggle up beside him. She lays her head over his right heart, listening to its steady pulse, echoed by its mate in that unmistakable quadruple beat which will always sound like home. The Doctor pulls the blanket up over them both, then lets his fingers drift over her skin, from shoulder to hip and back again in a gentle caress. Rose knows she should go to the loo, but the thought of extracting herself from the warmth of the bed and the Doctor’s embrace is a less pleasant thing than a bit of stickiness on her thighs or a wet spot on the sheets. So she stays, closes her eyes and lets the weightlessness settle deep, seeping into her belly and making her head spin in a hazy, sated way.

“Rose?”

“Mmm?”

The Doctor’s fingers touch her temple, circling lightly. Rose doesn’t open her eyes, but she hears him exhale through his nose and can almost picture the pensive set to his jaw.

“I’m thinking something, too.”

Rose blinks away the fuzzy edges of pre-sleep and tries to connect his statement to whatever it is he’s referring, when she remembers their talk of golden threads and dubiously acquired time-sense.

She tips her head up to look at him, finds him staring at the ceiling. “Tell me,” she whispers, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingers.

He doesn’t look at her this time, but that’s okay. His eyes drift shut and his fingers stroke her temple and he says, “I’m thinking about everyone.”

“Hmm?”

“Nine hundred years is a long time, more than you can imagine, Rose,” he says, quietly, speaking to the ceiling. “I’ve known so many people. I had family once, you know, on Gallifrey.”

“Susan?” Rose says, the name coming into her head as she recalls the few stories he’s shared of his first companion. Though he’s never said she was family, the affection with which he speaks of her always gives Rose the impression of an old uncle reminiscing about a beloved niece.

The name brings a smile to the Doctor’s lips, a delicate thing that’s easy to miss, though Rose likes to think of herself as somewhat of an enthusiastic student in the study of the Doctor’s expressions. It’s subtle but speaks of gratitude, that smile, that tiny stretch of his lips like a secret he’s holding, as though he doesn’t want to let on how much he’s touched by her simple remembrance.

The smile lingers as he continues speaking. “I’ve had friends. Companions. Enemies. Lovers,” he tells her, glancing down with that last, though she has already figured that out. “I’ve travelled the stars with the bravest, most brilliant and amazing people and they will forever mean so very much to me.”

His eyes shine as he speaks, fixed on the ceiling though his gaze has gone thoroughly inward, reaching deep into hundreds of years worth of memories. Rose touches his hand where it rests against her cheek, and he shifts to tangle their fingers together. Rose lays their joined hands over his chest and squeezes.

He looks down at her now, back in the present, wearing that same immense expression from before. “But none of them, Rose, none of them were _you_.”

It’s not words the Doctor’s afraid of, especially with this face. It’s the context, the content, the direction of them that concerns him. Their weight, their intent, and their effect. This, Rose thinks, is why she has a swarm of butterflies in her belly now. These words he’s not afraid to speak, and that means _everything_.

“Doctor,” Rose touches his cheek, cupping it in her palm, stroking her thumb across the line of freckles barely visible in the dim light. “I know. Of course I know.”

His eyes glisten wetly and he just stares at her. Then he smiles, so softly, and whispers, “I know, too.”

She traces her thumb over his bottom lip before twining her fingers with his again. “No going back. I meant it when I said it wasn’t an option.”

The Doctor squeezes her fingers, then wriggles until they are lying face to face, sharing his pillow, with their hands clasped between them.

“How long are you going to stay with me?” the Doctor asks, voice so quiet he’s barely audible over the hum of the time ship.

“Forever,” Rose answers, without stopping to breathe first. “My forever, Doctor, and yours too if I could find a way to do it.”

What shines in his eyes now is something that looks a little like hope, or perhaps a lot, and that’s a good thing. She’ll let her thoughts dwell later on all the facets of this, of the flash of insight on his face when she spoke that last bit. For now, she sighs against his lips when he leans in to kiss her, and burrows into his embrace when he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close.

As they drift off to sleep, Rose feels the threads between them weaving tighter, growing stronger.

Yes, she thinks. Forever sounds good.

*~*

The End :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I know Susan was the Doctor's granddaughter, not his niece, but Rose doesn't, since she didn't even know he'd been a father until _Fear Her_.


End file.
